(Reworked from a 9/2012 post.)
I realize that in this clime
Poems don’t always have to rhyme,
But I DO like mine to rhyme--
All the time. Yes, all the time.
Your concern may be for meter,
But no poem’s content could be sweeter
Than Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,
Unless you’re Mrs. Pumpkin Eater!
She dwells within her pumpkin shell
And seems to be doing very well,
But I think that she should tell
Her chauvinistic husband to go to hell!
She is not happy. No, she is sad.
The man she loved is no Galahad.
It is driving her quite mad
To think of husbands she could have had.
You can see it in her eyes.
You can hear it in her sighs.
Peter, Peter is no prize.
Women in your shells, arise!
Do not be a weak kneed mouse,
Tell him you demand a house
Or the rotund little louse
Will no longer be your spouse.
He must know that you have needs
That are not met by pumpkin seeds.
You need not live among the weeds.
Let him show love by his deeds.
I know he promised when you wed
That you would always have a bed
“But where?” is what you should have said.
I would have hit him on the head!
Perhaps a lawyer could quell your grief
And bring to you some sweet relief.
Ask one to please file his brief!
Now is the time--that’s my belief.
Take him for everything he’s got
(Although he claims it’s not a lot)
Then ask him, as an afterthought,
If he’s still glad he tied the knot!
Tell the miserly little elf
That he brought it on himself.
AND NOW A BONUS POEM (which I didn’t write):
GOOD MORNING POEM
I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still
When suddenly a tiny bird
Perched on my window sill.
It sang a song so lovely
So carefree and so gay,
That slowly all my troubles
Began to slip away.
It sang of far off places
Of laughter and of fun.
It seemed its very trilling
Brought up the morning sun.
I stirred beneath the covers,
Crept slowly out of bed,
Then gently shut the window
And crushed its f***ing head.